


The First Few Days of an Entirely Heretical Regime

by MorganOfTheFey



Series: OTP: Kintsukuroi [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A/B/O, Adaar is trans, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Cullen is a suicidal goddamn mess, Drug Addiction, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Slow Burn, Soulmates, Trans Character, but first these two angst ridden hot messes have to figure out how to be friends, but he's trying to get better and learn how to safely cope with the withdrawal, not too AU; the basic plot is the exact same, she's also very worried about the power dynamics of being Cullen's boss and Herald
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganOfTheFey/pseuds/MorganOfTheFey
Summary: Reluctantly stepping into the role of the Herald of Andraste, Daar is also trying to work on establishing a relationship with Cullen--unfortunately, they're both soul-sick, emotionally repressed, and barely able to handle a friendship. Also, she's his boss, not out to anyone but Dorian as trans, and the Mark keeps trying to kill her.So, the usual bullshit.xxxMeanwhile, Cullen is barely holding onto control as the Commander now that everyone knows he's an Omega. The withdrawal is hitting worse than ever after already relapsing once, and the soldiers are on the brink of mutiny. He doesn't have time to have a soulmate, and he doesn't deserve her anyway.And with eighty-one rifts across Thedas, the world may not hold together long enough for it to matter ...





	1. I Understand

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone who hasn't read the previous fic in this series, it's technically not required, so long as you get on board with the a/b/o thing and Cullen and Daar being soulmates who haven't admitted to anyone--certainly not each other!--that they know it. But it probably will help if you do read The Great Thing About the Conclave is How it Fucks People Over.
> 
> To returning readers, I know this is late, but it is here! Hooray! I also have a few chapters written ahead of time, so I should be able to stick to the previous schedule of updating once a week on Thursday.
> 
> This fic will take us through the early part of Haven, when everyone is still yelling at each other and the Herald of Andraste doesn't have any real authority yet. So Cullen and Daar will be dealing with that political bullshit while also trying to figure out how "friendship" works and realizing they have a lot in common.
> 
> Trauma. I'm talking about horrible, horrible trauma that they've both experienced and no one else understands.
> 
> But hey! Now they can slowly start to heal together and support each other, and isn't that what we're all desperately here for??

Daar wakes up with her heart still trying to kill her. Each beat corresponds to a pulse from the Mark, or maybe vice versa. Either way, if her heartbeat picks up too fast, the Mark will start pulsing with stabs of pain again, which will make her heart beat faster, and then the Mark will get worse, so her heart will--

An extremely annoying cycle.

But laying in bed in half a coma is boring. Her carefully built up resistance to most toxins, poisons, and pain suppressants is great for surviving assassinations and kidnapping attempts, not so great for staying drugged long enough to heal properly. At least this time she woke up with enough coherence that she isn't paralyzed in between sleep and reality. She flexes her right hand and all of her toes again to be sure. Yep, movement is a go.

So she does the dumbest thing possible and turns her head to look at Cullen. He sits slumped in a chair nearby, asleep in full armor. He hasn't shaved and she can see the bags under his eyes even with them closed. Maker, he really looks like shit.

Her heartbeat picks up.

For the first time in her life, Daar misses her old drill instructor. They'd beat some fucking sense into her. Since it's just her, she focuses on her breathing and manually calms her heart rate back down. When her mentor claimed that skill could one day safe her life, she hadn't expected them to be right. If the Maker exists, He has a cruel sense of humor, hanging Daar's life on her ability to stay calm and meditate.

A whimper escapes from the sleeping Cullen. His armor clanks as he jerks, hands clenching and another whine building in his throat. He's dragged the chair close enough to the end of her cot that she can probably kick him with her foot. Her bare foot. Who the fuck removed her boots? Cullen rattles again, and she pushes the irritation aside.

One nudge of her foot against his greave sends him jumping to his feet, hand already reaching for his sword. Good response time. He would have made her drill instructor proud. Daar expected that reaction though, and her foot pushes down on the back of his hand, her leg muscles versus his arm. They're both exhausted, so it's a pretty pitiful contest, but it's one she wins. Her alpha pride isn't above accepting that.

"Stop it," Daar tells him. "Or I'll kick you in your other sword next."

Trying to process that dirty joke drags Cullen out of whatever nightmare had him trapped. His eyes blink into awareness, soft and golden once more, if red-rimmed from lack of sleep. She gets to see the exact moment he realizes she threatened to kick him in the dick. His face flushes up to his ears, and he ducks his head while trying to stammer out a response.

Isn't that fucking adorable. She's going to die from a heart attack one day after meeting her mate because he's _cute_. Maker, that's unforgivably stupid. The Qun was right all along and attachments truly are a weakness.

"Forgive me," Cullen finally manages to say.

Daar puts her leg back down, and he dutifully releases his pommel to stand at attention. What a good soldier. She has to focus on fucking meditating again for a few seconds before she can reply.

"I understand waking up swinging," she says with a pointed look to the redness still wrapped around his throat.

Pavus should have fixed that, but maybe Cullen didn't trust a mage to heal him. Or maybe he was the self-sacrificing type to refuse medical treatment when there were still other injured people who "needed it more." That sort of martyrdom would annoy her if he hadn't followed through on his promise to get her to Pavus, even after she attacked him.

"It's fine," he says. "Is there anything you need?"

A yawn threatens to break through before she can reply. Daar lets it happen. Between the drugs, exhaustion, and forced slow heart rate, she's just on the uncomfortable edge of sleepy. Not enough to actually fall back asleep, but still too tired to do anything else. It's the worse thing ever, in the world, and yes, she's counting the Breach.

"C'mere."

Cullen responds immediately to her sleepy request, moving up to the head of the cot and dropping to one knee beside her. This close, she reassesses how bad he looks and decides it's actually worse than she first thought. His hair doesn't look washed, and his skin complexion is pale even for a Fereldan. He probably hasn't been eating properly in addition to the lack of sleep. Daar's not really bothered since she's definitely seen worse--and committed worse--personal hygiene offenses as a soldier, but she still shouldn't want to snuggle him when he is objectively gross.

"Here." He offers her his water flask. "You should stay hydrated."

Daar raises both her eyebrows at him. He looks like a hangover that spent ten days lost in the desert, and he wants to talk to _her_ about staying hydrated?

"You first."

He opens his mouth to protest, but she gives him a Very Stern look, and he crumples immediately. Maker, this boy is subconsciously begging for a superior officer so hard, she's surprised she hasn't had to beat off three alphas and an overconfident beta already. No wonder he's so stressed. Alphas here have horrible ideas of dominance, wrapped up in a creepy sexual coercion package, too. So he's damned if he does and damned if he doesn't, but she respects that at least not tying himself to an alpha has let him earn a respectable military career.

When Cullen finishes his drink, Daar lifts her hand but pretends to be too tired to go through with the action, adjusting her expression to sheepish but hopeful. He obligingly lifts the flasks up to her lips and tilts it back for her. He's male, so in this country, that almost definitely means he has a penis. And men here just can't seem to resist making things creepy whenever possible. But despite holding up something for her to suckle at and swallow, his face remains perfectly earnest, and he tilts the flask back down the moment she stops drinking.

Ugh, why does he have to be so good. For all their creepy rape vibes, Andrastans have such prudish notions about touching each other that she can't even pet his hair or rub the back of his neck the way he deserves. Why can't they enjoy fucking but emotionally constipate themselves like civilized people? Even the 'Vints managed that, homophobia not withstanding.

"Thank you," she says instead.

Cullen ducks his head again, blush and shy smile both easy to spot as he reacts like he's never heard such lavish praise before. She looks him over again without the pretense of checking on his health, and just checks him out instead. That ends abruptly when her eyes drop down to his throat. He must have accepted some minor form of healing, since he only has a few streaks of redness left instead of a handprint-shaped bruise, but the sight still does an excellent job of slowing down her heart rate by making it stop altogether for a moment.

"I'm sorry."

He looks back up at her like he can't possibly imagine what she's talking about, so she clarifies.

"For your throat. I shouldn't have attacked you."

"I nearly broke Cassandra's arm when she tried to take a vial of lyrium away from me," he says in a flat voice. "I did break her nose with my elbow, and I think I bit her too."

Daar barely holds back from saying that she shouldn't have tried to take it away from him, since it sounds like she did it without his permission. That's how you burn trust, not help an addict.

"I have nightmares," he continues, looking down at his hands. "And ... bad days. Sometimes I forget--I forget, things. Where I am. I see people but I don't recognize them, or I do but I just don't ... care."

"I understand."

He looks back up at her doubtfully, which she doesn't begrudge. Lots of people like to say that, and it's nearly always bullshit.

"Not the lyrium," she says. "But the soul sickness, yes."

Cullen drops her gaze. She should let it go. There's nothing more she has to say that he needs to know about her. She crossed the sea to get away from the Qun, be recognized as a woman, and--

Oh fuck it, she's done lying to herself. She came here to find the person at the end of her golden string. She's spent five years dicking around, avoiding that responsibility under the excuse of getting better, but soul sickness doesn't just go away like that. She's fucked up for good, but thank the Maker, so is he.

And if ever there was a prayer to get her sent to the Black City, it's that one.

"Hey." Daar pitches her voice hard to get him to make eye contact again. "I'm not a civilian. I set the record at twenty-five hours under torture because you don't reach the military levels I aimed for without having your mind broken at least once to ensure loyalty."

He leans forward slightly enough for it to be an unconscious move. Maybe he's praying the same as her.

"I left because I was sick of burning villages and attending meetings where bureaucrats decided the exact numerical amount of coin people were worth to the state, and then spent them by the millions." She claps a hand over his pauldron. "I'm fucking tired too."

If his lean forward earlier had been slight, Cullen practically sways beneath her hand now. He looks up at her with such open desperation for understanding and approval that she has to close her eyes. The Mark sets up a low pulse again, back and forth into her heart.

She's going to fuck this up and hurt him so bad.

But Andraste's flaming tits, clearly no one else is doing him any favors at the moment. At least Daar knows all of her many flaws, and she'll admit and apologize when she fucks up. Which is an extremely low bar to step over--and also, at what point in this conversation did she decide he was hers, anyway?

"Should I get Pavus?"

Daar waves him back down without opening her eyes. She shelves that question for later and focuses on her breathing exercises. After a moment, Cullen starts breathing with her, deeply enough for her to hear and follow his example. She opens her eyes to find him kneeling beside her again.

"No," she says. "I just wanted to say, I understand hurting people, and I'll try not to put us in a bad situation like that again."

"It is not your fault you were injured," Cullen immediately replies.

She raises an eyebrow at him. "I opened the rift."

As fast as he had defended her, he shifts straight into lecturing. "That was reckless. You acted without authority or permission, and you endangered the lives of everyone around you."

Daar suppresses a smile. Getting chewed out for pulling a reckless asshole stunt that actually saved everyone's lives. Just like old times. It's almost enough to make her homesick, except Cullen doesn't sound nearly furious enough to be one of her COs. Maybe--she stops the flicker of another thought about her mentor before it can even form.

"Yes, Commander. If you see fit--" She stops and clears her throat. "Ah, hmm. I'm a sarcastic asshole, so I'm not really sure I can pull off this tone. But. Sincerely, if my actions warrant discipline, I accept that consequence."

Despite her reassurance, Cullen considers her with suspicious eyes. "Truly?"

"I'm an asshole, not a coward. Never shied from a court martial or an arrest in my life," she tells him with a grin.

He exhales a huff of air through his nose in something not quite a snort. Very subtle, in Fereldan. But to Qunari, that would be like roaring laughter. Why put your face muscles through all the trouble of smiling when you can never do that and instead just twitch an eyebrow? And of course, no actual laughter. Entirely unprofessional. These Westerners are so much easier to read with their emotions plastered all over their faces, but at least her mate isn't quite so gauche about it.

"That will not be necessary," Cullen says. "Although reckless, you did kill the pride demon and seal the rift. So long as you exhibit professional behavior from here on out ..."

"I'll be so good." Another yawn catches her halfway through. "Pro-ahh--ahhhmise."

"You should rest."

"Hmm, maybe."

"If you don't want to sleep again yet, will you tell me--" He stops and very obviously considers his words. "Is Pavus what you need?"

"He's gay," Daar answers bluntly.

Cullen blinks, then stares wordlessly at her. She shrugs.

"It was a scandal in Tevene, but he says he doesn't want to hide it down here," she says. "And I have trust issues. Especially with people handling my body while I'm unconscious. I thought Dorian Pavus would be the least likely to try anything untoward."

That doesn't seem to convince Cullen, although he doesn't argue back against her reasoning. She could tell him how Qunari doctors don't use magic, and their only goal is to make a soldier military-fine again. "Healing" is far too generous a word for the scalpels and cauterizing, stitching a body back together just long enough to let the soldier go back out and serve as more canon fodder.

Or she could tell him the real truth. She's met a few aqun-athlok on this side of the ocean, calling themselves transgender. He might have heard the word too. He's had her back in every fight so far. She could tell him, _I'm a woman who has a penis, and that really scares a lot of people, so please speak up for me if an angry mob forms._

And while she's at it, she can also ask for a small loan of a thousand gold and for her right horn to grow back!

"Plus, if people decide they need a scapegoat after all," Daar says instead. "As another mistrusted foreigner, he might empathize."

"No harm will come to you," Cullen tells her.

She gives him a tired smile, but before she can think of a deflection so she won't have to address such a naive promise, she feels the subject of much gossip himself draw closer. There's not a string linking her to every single person in Haven of course, but Pavus caring for her has drawn up enough of a string between them for her to monitor when it draws tight or falls slack.

"Kaffas, how are you awake?" Pavus cries when he sees her, rushing to the table to start mixing up another concoction. "I gave you a dose that would have put down a druffalo!"

"Me big strong Alpha," Daar says.

He and Cullen both turn to stare at her. Humor is so hard to translate, and now she's just embarrassed herself in front of her mate. The Mark is going to give her a heart attack and she is literally going to _die_ of embarrassment because she made a stupid joke.

"Oh, the drugs are going to my head." She dramatically throws an arm across her face. "I can only speak gibberish! Nonsense!"

"Stop that," Pavus orders, though without tamping down a smirk first. "You're hardly the first alpha to embarrass themselves in front of a pretty omega."

"But you're a beta," Cullen says. Now he gets stared at by the others in the room until realization dawns across his face. "Oh! _I'm_ \--oh."

Daar forces herself to turn away from his blushing face to look Pavus in the eye. "I am going to die."

Pavus snorts, then considers Cullen with a superior sniff. "I suppose he does have a ... simple sort charm. Now stop flirting and drink this."

"I feel like I'm in an Andrastan purity play," Daar grumbles as she takes the offered cup. "If you ever make sweet, sinful eye contact with another person, your heart immediately swells up and you DIE."

Cullen makes a sound suspiciously close to a chuckle quickly turned into a cough. She slams back the cup of medicine like a shot before she really does kill herself ogling him.

"Now, visitation is over," Pavus announces. "Kindly get out."

Cullen crosses his arms and turns to address Daar instead of acknowledging him. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Go eat," she says. "Bathe. Take care of yourself. Then you can come back."

He at least looks somewhat chastised as he ducks his head again. "Yes ma'am."

The salute he gives her before he leaves is unnecessary, but it is a fond reminder of home, where everyone addressed each other with cold professionalism. Bare civility, if you wanted to be overly affectionate. All the messy feelings and open laughter over here had been great fun and games until she found her mate.

Now it's just scary and embarrassing.

Mostly embarrassing.

"So, you and--"

Daar snuggles down beneath her covers and cuts Pavus off. "Tired."

"I heard about this trick from that very frightening Seeker," he says. "Do you honestly expect it to work twice?"

Daar makes fake snoring sounds until the drugs take her away, and she sleeps for real.


	2. True Lies and Whole Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daar makes a half-assed attempt to leave before she gets, shall we say, _burned_ by this whole "Herald" thing, but she gets worried Cullen might be looking for his own way out by standing on top of a frozen lake in heavy metal armor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real quick, trigger warnings for the very heavy implication that Cullen is suicidal, and Daar also discusses a particular method of suicide in the qunari culture I made up. there's some internal-dialogue talk about Daar's own mental illnesses too, but it's just a brief explanation that she has them.
> 
> this is a little bit later than Thursday like I said last chapter, but I'm still plodding along! some sweet sweet angst in this chapter, but in a "two broken people sharing their pain and making awkward attempts to support each other" sort of way, not just needless drama-pain.

Daar makes an escape attempt from Haven as soon as she's able to walk. Now that she's had two days of rest to get the strings sorted out in her mind, it isn't hard to sneak past the Left Hand's spies. It also helps that no one expects she could possibly be up and running away so soon, but walking away from shit that definitely should have killed her is her number two specialty, right under running away from responsibility.

Of course, she then immediately foils her own plan by following Cullen's golden string down to the frozen lake, instead of the rendezvous point her mercenary crew had decided on.

"Hey."

He startles despite her soft greeting, then snaps to attention. "Hello."

Daar pretends to take in the star-lit view as she moves beside him. The snow blanketing everything makes it difficult to tell if they're still on real ground or actually on the ice. She's willing to be it's the latter, even with his heavy plate armor weighing him down. Perhaps _especially_ with the heavy armor. Cullen clears his throat awkwardly in the silence, but she saves him from having to make conversation.

"Mind if I sit down?"

He immediately takes off his fur pauldron. "Let me."

She steps back a little and watches in curious amusement as he folds the fur and lays it on the ground, as if she were some dainty little human lady in need of protection from the snow. She takes a seat, and Cullen tugs off his fabric cloak hanging down the front of his armor next, to offer her as a shawl.

Daar could get used to being treated like a lady. And she's always had a fondness for scarves and wraps. Excellent for make-shift skirts, handcuffs, and garrotes. The perfect accessory every woman needs.

"Thank you." She looks him over, back impossibly straight and feet exactly shoulder-width apart. "And at ease, Commander. You can even sit next to me, if you want."

Cullen relaxes a little, although he quickly looks back out over the lake when she smiles and pats the snow beside her. "I prefer to stand."

"All right."

She doesn't press him any further. It's not hard to guess what sort of thoughts a soul-sick soldier has standing on a frozen lake in metal armor. At least he's still just at the edge. If they even are over the water, it can't be more than a couple feet deep at this point, although he stares out at the center of the lake like it calls to him.

Daar has never heard that particular song before. Her mind prefers the whispers of paranoia, mixed with long sermons on her own grandeur.

"Do--" Cullen stops and tries to start over. After a moment of struggling, he lets out a frustrated sigh. "Why are you here?"

"Trying to escape."

The guilty-quick dart of his eyes between her and the lake makes it painfully obvious what sort of escape attempt he had been considering.

"There's an old cabin a quarter mile from here my crew stashed some supplies at in case shit went south at the Conclave," she tells him.

Some of the tension eases from his shoulders, but his face stays drawn tight with worry. "You cannot leave. No one else can close the rifts."

Daar looks back out over the lake. "How do you feel about lies?"

The sudden subject change leaves him frowning and silent. She takes that as her answer.

"How about lies based on a truth?"

Cullen's scowl deepens.

"Strong disapproval, then?"

"What did you lie about?"

"Why I left the Qun."

A very large part of her screams to stop talking. There is no reason for her to share this information. Leave now, while she still can. Listening to this voice has kept her alive for thirty-eight years. It is unbelievably stupid of her to trust this human after knowing him for three days, two of which she's spent largely unconscious.

But the Qun had taken so much from her. Most of it she'd willingly slaughtered herself. Her body, her life, her heart--it all belonged to the state. Her happiness, her mentor, the soldiers under her command--all sacrificed for the greater good. And throughout all the madness the _one thing_ she'd held onto and swore she would never let them touch had been her golden string, the only secret she ever managed to keep.

Now here he was. The person at the end of the string, finally close enough for her to see and touch. Like hell she was going to keep her distance any longer out of fear.

"There wasn't a man, or a soulmate. I didn't fall in love," Daar says with a dismissive wave of her hand.

"Why did you lie?" Cullen asks.

"It conveyed an emotional truth."

He makes a noise so disgusted, Seeker Pentaghast would be proud.

"So that excuse doesn't fly in Fereldan?"

He gives another huff. "You sound like Varric defending his book."

Daar laughs. "Sorry. But my answer isn't entirely bullshit."

That earns her a look both dubious and disapproving.

"There was someone close to me," she says. "The most important person I had. But you Theodosians can't seem to imagine any sort of love that isn't romantic, and when I say _my mentor since I was five_ , then you start thinking parent--and still ask if I was in love with them. Easier to just say what people expect."

"To lie."

"What I told you conveyed all the same important information as the truth," Daar argues. "I had a change of heart after deeply hurting someone very important to me, whose only crime was attempting to make the system hurt less people."

Cullen does seem to consider that a moment, but then he shakes his head. "I would prefer the whole truth."

"My mentor had the barest spark of magic. Enough to maybe light a candle if they concentrated very, very hard. No one knew, not even them. The call to have them tested was just political nonsense to besmirch their name, but our tests are much more rigorous than what you have here, and they failed."

"More rigorous?" he asks.

Daar watches him closely as she answers. "They had just enough latent magic that a near death experience, vigorous daily training, or the power of lyrium could have awakened it."

It doesn't take him long to catch on.

"A Templar." He scowls at her again. "You're saying Templars are. That we are ..."

"Not a conversation I thought you'd like to get into, and it's not relevant now," she replies.

Cullen turns away to look back over the lake again. She watches a herd of druffalo move across it in the distance with him, both of them silent for a long time.

"What ..." He clears his throat, then snaps his mouth shut.

No doubt he knows what her mentor being accused of magery meant for her. At least under the Qun, everyone got tested as a baby. And they all went to the State anyway, so if one failed, the breeding couple simply got letters back that the child had not been a viable citizen candidate.

Here, people raise their children. Give them names, watch them grow, love them all their lives until one day little Timmy's fingertips spark. Then those same parents who scared away monsters under the bed and promised to always be there can't abandon their children fast enough.

Maybe Daar is just biased, but it seems crueler that way. Letting them think they can be loved, only to rip it all away.

"I held my mentor down so the Ben Hasserath could burn out their eyesight."

"I thought ... they--their mouths--"

She holds up her hand. "Usually yes, a mage's mouth is sewed shut. This was different for a reason I don't want to explain."

Cullen stares at her, but eventually ducks his head in acquiescence. If he doesn't want to be lied to, then he needs to accept there are some things she can't speak about at all. He thinks for a while, then looks back to her for a different question.

"You said, when this story was about a man." He pauses for a moment before continuing forward. "That I reminded you of him."

"My mentor went into the desert," Daar says by way of answer. "That's a euphemism for suicide, and the literal method. To prevent tainting anyone else who would have to clean up your corpse."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't offer any protest or alternate explanation for being down here at night.

"They lived, blind and abandoned. They found water, and Andraste's voice, and eventually someone else wandering out in the desert. And when they nursed that person back to health, they found a new purpose too."

"That's--" Cullen shakes his head. "I am not ..."

She raises her eyebrow at him, and he stops. "I know it sounds like a shitty, heavy-handed parable. That's why I hate telling the whole truth. Lies are always so much more believable."

He quickly changes the subject, without any pretense otherwise. "Did you leave after that?"

"No." Daar sighs. "Not for another ten years. All I ever wanted was to be a soldier, and what I did had already been done."

He nods slowly. "Yes."

"Anyway." This time she clears her throat. "I'm great at telling long, rambling stories, so before I _really_ start to sound like Varric ..."

Cullen snorts.

"The second time I had to make my choice, I chose my mentor." She adopts a more casual tone. "No one could prove it was me of course, but a lot of people uninvited me from parties and tried to assassinate me, rude stuff like that. So I left."

"And now you're leaving this ...?" he asks with a frown.

Her voice turns hard. "I did my duty. I've seen what happens when you try to change a system that can't admit it's broken."

Cullen's hands clench with soft clanks from his gauntlets, even as he gives a curt nod. His gaze sweeps from her face, down to the soft green light of the Mark escaping even from her own clenched fist. Again, he struggles to speak. Daar waits to see if he'll disagree or perhaps even try to comfort her, although his face simply becomes more pained as he tries to find the right words.

"I know," she finally says. "No one else can close the rifts. And relax, I won't ask you to let me go."

The look of relief on his face makes her stare back at the lake. Fereldans aren't exactly known for playing the Game, but seven different kinds of political bullfuckery are about to rain down on them the moment the mountain passes clear. She should really teach him to control his expressions, even if it has been kind of nice not needing to play games with him.

"Then what are you doing out here?" he asks.

"What are you?"

His eyes drop down to the ground. Unwilling to move forward, but unable to leave either. If she weren't so tall, even sitting down, she could lean against his leg. The thought of leaning on him actually tempts her a bit. No Ben-Hasserath here to report the inappropriate intimacy, and her skin isn't crawling at the possibility of genuine emotional connection. For once. Who could judge two assholes wandering around in the desert for taking solace in each other?

"Is the Mark still hurting?"

His soft question brings her attention back to it. Daar clenches and opens her fist a few times. The motion doesn't really do anything to stop the not-pain. It hurts, but there's no wound. Nothing for her to heal or conceptualize as the cause of the phantom pain, except a green light radiating from nothing at all.

Worse, the Mark's presence means they're not just two random assholes drifting through life. As the only one who can seal rifts, she's about to be catapulted to some form of leadership, and Cullen has clearly taken his own station as Commander of the soldiers left in Haven. That means duty and obligations for them both. Attempting a personal relationship is already terrifying enough to send her running into a clutch of demons rather than risk accidentally forming a friendship. Trying to pull that off within the context of military leadership will dredge up all the old abuse and psychological conditioning she's just now got a grip on enough to live a semi-stable life.

Oh, and the looming political drama between the Chantry, Mage War, and Fereldan military over who should control the use of her Mark and to what purpose is absolutely fucking perfect to kick start new paranoia spirals, and that's not even mentioning the whispers she's heard of calling her the Herald of mother-shitting _Andraste_ , which feeds directly into her delusions of grandeur in ways not even her narcissistic personality had ever dared to imagine.

Daar leans forward to put her head between her knees. "I don't want this. Andraste, _I don't want this._ "

Cullen drops down beside her, but that's the last flash of awareness she has before she's suddenly looking at a rift. It hovers over a cobblestone country road in front of a stone archway. No snow or frozen lake, and Adaar immediately shifts into her military headspace to process what just happened. No other strings--even unknown ones--indicated anyone else had been close enough to her or the Commander to attack. That leaves the Commander himself as a possible threat, but the scene shifts again before she can follow through with that possibility.

Another rift, this one clearly in a wooded country area. Large wooden cabin, south of the rift. Stars still in the same basic position as at Haven, so unlikely to be in a new country. Possible location: Hinterlands.

A new rift appears. Adaar stops trying to analyze in real time as the--possibilities: vision, hallucination; teleportation, unlikely--images steadily continue to change. She commits each scene to memory instead and notes the shift occurs every ten seconds.

With that small sense of order, it becomes easier to process the barrage of images. Almost like a report, or the memory training she underwent as a recruit. Here are multiple locations with various enemies and landmarks. Commit everything possible to memory and recreate each scene exactly or endure shame and corporeal punishment.

Nice and familiar.

Daar eases back into herself slowly. She works best when multitasking anyway, and the visions of rifts don't seem to be slowing down. Past the mundane background task of cataloging the rifts to memory, she finds a vague awareness of her physical situation. Still cold, although not freezingly so. Something warm spans her shoulders. One more point of warmth and pressure against her arm. A familiar scent. Subtle, but clean and crisp.

Ideally, she needs her eyes open and working to physically see the strings connecting people, but she's learned to make clumsy mental grasps at them too. And she's had plenty of practice holding onto the golden string to anchor herself while hallucinating and being tortured.

She waits it out until the visions stop at eighty-one rifts.

Eighty-one goddamn rifts across both Ferelden and Orlais--and that's just what's cropped up after two days. There could still be more forming, spreading across Thedas.

So much for her plan to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just in case if it was confusing or unclear, Daar's mentor is non-binary and uses they/them pronouns. it'll be explained more later on as Cullen learns more about qunari culture (that I'm making up).
> 
> also, big shoutout to maculategiraffe for leaving me a review! I'm testing out a lot of writer-skills practicing world-building, pacing, and character development here, so I really love getting any feedback at all about it!!


	3. Head Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen tries to be a good guard dog while Daar is blacked out, but he doesn't know how to help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: Daar is technically deadnamed, in that Leliana knows her old name in Qunlat that she doesn't use anymore, but the actual name itself doesn't appear in the fic. it's just made clear that Leliana knows it
> 
> I may start updating on the weekends instead of Thursdays, due to a schedule change at work. since school is out, all the children are being dropped off at the library instead, so I'm picking up a lot of extra hours. which is a good thing -- bigger paycheck! maybe I can save up enough money this summer to help offset the cost of moving in November and getting a dog ^^

Cullen wishes he could go one day without being helpless to protect his mate. He drops to his knees beside Daar while she trembles and stares without seeing. She's their one and only hope. It is her duty to the world to use the Mark Andraste gave her before more people die.

But the desperation in her voice when she said she didn't want this--and now whatever new hell she's suffering--

Maker, haven't they served _enough_?

Daar doesn't answer or respond when he calls her name. He knows better than to shake her shoulder. His shield is back at his tent, and he would rather get hurt himself than ever draw his sword against her. He tries calling her name one more time before touching her arm.

She grabs his throat, but Cullen expects that now. Her grip stays light enough it actually doesn't choke him this time. He pushes down the hope that maybe she's starting to trust him and attributes her weak grip to the episode she's having. The trembles are small, no harder than the light shivering most people do in this cold. But does she still need to be laid down on her back? Restrained in case the tremors get worse? He doesn't even know if this is a seizure or some sort of magical reaction only a mage would understand.

Daar draws her knees up to her chest, but her eyes won't track the hand he waves in front of her face. At least her breathing sounds steady--not panting from exertion or too deliberate to hide her pain. Is she in pain? The Mark isn't sparking for once. Is that good?

"Maker's fuck!" Cullen swears.

They're too far outside the main wall and even past the soldier's camp outside it for a reasonable chance of anyone hearing him. He draws a breath to shout for help anyway, because he can't do anything goddamn else. Movement up ahead draws his attention, and Leliana emerges from the shadows. He should be relieved that someone else is here to help. A small part of him is, but mostly he can’t help but wonder how long she’s been spying on them.

And for what purpose.

"What happened?" the Left Hand of the Divine demands.

Cullen fights both the urge to duck his head in submission to the alpha and to snarl at her in defiance. This wasn't the time for games, no matter how much she loves to play them.

"I don't know," he says through gritted teeth.

Leliana stops three paces away and drops into a crouch. He hates the way she looks at Daar, curious but cold. Like watching a nug struggle harder than expected in a hunter's trap.

"Has she been this way the entire time?" Leliana asks.

"Yes. She won't respond to--" Cullen stops, fully processing the implications of her question. “Entire time? So you have been--"

"I had someone follow you," she says, as if this fact should be both obvious and irrelevant. "Not responding to her name?"

"Yes." He struggles to keep a growl out of his voice. "Follow me or her?"

Leliana doesn't bother to answer. She calls out a new name in Qunlat. It's much longer, and the only part Cullen catches is when it ends in Adaar. Of course. Her real name. That he doesn't know. The only response Daar makes is to slowly lean closer to him. He automatically wraps his arms around her. Leliana starts to say something else, but he can't hold back a protective growl this time. His mate wants him for comfort, and he is not going to let an Orlesian Alpha play mind games on her.

"I only--"

"Do not," Cullen snaps back.

Leliana's eyes flash red, the quick sort of glint that means she expects an immediate surrender. Normally, Cullen would have done so without a second thought. A Templar knight has no reason to ever challenge the Left Hand of the Most Holy. Certainly not an ex-Templar. Never an ex-Templar omega.

But her challenge barely even presses against his mind. Nothing can stop him from protecting his mate. It almost feels like lyrium--the pure righteous invulnerability. Except there's no sweet song, pushing for more and more power. The quiet in his mind holds steadfast, the same calm assurance he is exactly where he's meant to be that he felt when he first joined the Order, when right and wrong were still simple.

Crimson bleeds fully into Leliana's blue eyes. "Yield, Rutherford."

He can't speak without resorting to instinct and growling again, so he just draws Daar closer against his breastplate. He knows he's guarding like a dog against new visitors getting too close to his owner, but he can't help it. Daar is _his_ , and Leliana is not allowed to touch or speak to her.

"Kaffas, what is she doing now?"

Dorian arrives at a light jog, flaunting his way past Cullen and Leliana's dominance game as only a beta could. He edges a bit closer than Leliana, and the smart lift of his eyebrow cuts through the hormonal tension until Cullen just feels silly refusing to let anyone else touch Daar when he doesn't even know what's wrong with her.

"She's having some sort of seizure," he says, fighting to keep his voice steadier than an ashamed mumble.

"Is it the Mark?" Leliana asks.

Cullen clenches his jaw. It is a legitimate question. She is not just reasserting her authority. It's a legitimate question, let Dorian answer the question.

"I don't feel a spike in magic," Dorian replies. "But the magic powering her Mark is some ancient elven nonsense, so I honestly can't rule it out. We may have to send for Solas to--"

Daar clears her throat and straightens up like she'd been caught dozing. How long has she been aware? Or had she just woken up?

Spies, eavesdropping, people following them--this is why Cullen hates the Game. He pushes his irritation aside for Daar's sake and tries to ask if she's all right, but all he manages is a croaky rendition of her name.

"I'm good," Daar assures him. Her eyes drop down to her hand still lightly holding his throat, not hard enough to bruise this time. She lets go and shifts her arm so it loops around his shoulders instead, and looks back up to search his face. "You good?"

He nods, still too shaken from almost losing her for as many times in as many days. Between the Pride demon, the Mark interfering with her heart beat, and whatever this was, she's three for three. She watches him for another moment, then turns to Dorian.

"It is too late at night for me to deal with Solas," she says. "And get some better spies, Leliana. It took them over two minutes to figure out I was gone and another five to track me down here."

"Were you aware of us during--while you ...?" Cullen trails off, unsure of what to call that.

"I could hear, I just couldn't process," Daar says. "But I'm aware enough now to remember what I heard and process the sounds into actual words."

Leliana gives a considering hum. "I heard Qunari training was good."

Daar rolls her eyes. "Oh fuck off, I'm tired. You can fish for information in the morning. I'm pretty sure I should be in bed right now."

"You absolutely should," Dorian jumps in. "Even if you are highly hypocritical and only cooperating to get out of talking about what happened."

She falls back into Cullen's arms and says in a voice wooden enough even he can tell she's faking, "Oh I'm so tired."

Dorian scoffs and mutters in Tevene with a shake of his head, but Leliana's eyes stay sharp and focused on Adaar.

"We need to determine if your episode was caused by a seizure, the Mark, or something else," she says.

"She's tired," Cullen defends, despite knowing she likely could answer questions at the moment.

"Of course," Leliana says smoothly. "I can withhold my questions until Adaar has been settled back in the healer's cabin under Dorian's supervision."

He glares at her. "You can withhold until morning."

She smiles at him in that infuriating Orlesian way while she completely ignores what he just said. "It's dangerous to be outside Haven's walls at night, so far from the soldiers' camp. And it seems Adaar hasn't yet fully recovered from the events of the Conclave. I'm sure you'd agree relocating to a warm, safe cabin would be in her best interests, wouldn't you, Commander?"

Cullen starts grinding his teeth again. He can't argue her point, but he's still sorely tempted to repeat Daar's earlier profanity. The Left Hand apparently has people watching the healer's cabin, which Daar clearly isn't allowed to leave. Just because the chains have come off, doesn't mean she's no longer a prisoner. It had been goddamn _foolish_ of him to think otherwise.

Maker, but he hates the Game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter turned out to be kind of short, but the next one will be a bit longer! some of the later chapters I'm debating on how to split up because they've all started getting longer, lol
> 
> thank you to everyone who came through and left a review last chapter!! I really appreciate it <3


	4. Eighty-One Rifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daar gets everyone to agree to stop shouting at each other and play nice, and she offers Cullen a proposal ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **trigger warning:** Daar minorly misgenders herself by using a masculine phrase that includes her in the group, but the text is clear that it's just meant to be an awkwardly translated phrase. But here's a heads up about it just in case.
> 
> We're starting to get into Daar actually taking on duties as the Herald, so the next few chapters will mostly be about whipping Haven into shape and dealing with political bullshit. Also, Daar has decided to start step one of her five year plan to win Cullen's hand in friendship, because moving any faster than that is just Too Scary.
> 
> (These idiots are moving a lot faster than that.)

Daar wakes up to the sound of Cullen’s heavy clomping footsteps right outside the healer’s cabin. Pace-pace-pace. Turn. Pace-pace-pace. She tunes it out to identify the person actually inside the cabin with her—no one else wears this fine of cologne except Dorian. She makes exaggerated waking up movements, which he doesn’t appear to buy for a second.

Outside, the pacing continues.

“Shall I let your puppy in before he starts scratching at the door?” Dorian asks.

“Can you stop being an ass about it?” Daar replies without any heat.

Dorian fakes offense with a gasp and a hand delicately raised to his chest. “So now I’m not allowed to speak at all?"

“Do you usually talk out of your ass?"

“It’s my best feature."

He shoots her a wink, and she can’t help grinning back at him. As soon as he opens the door, Cullen marches in, shortly followed by Leliana and Cassandra. Dorian—the flaky cad—slips outside after they come in, likely so he won’t get caught up in whatever Lecture is about to happen.

“Don’t all get in bed with me at once,” Daar tells the group.

That at least gets Cassandra to make a disgusted noise and back up a few paces. Unfortunately, Cullen takes a step back too, polite Chantry boy that he is. Daar gives Leliana a pointed look, who simply stares back with a cool smile, still standing right at the foot of her bed.

Daar swallows down her own disgusted noise. Not that she has anything against bedding women, redheads, or other alphas. But it's insulting that _this_ other alpha acts like they're on equal footing. The Game on this side of the sea is like whiny toddlers throwing sand at each other in comparison to Court under the Qun. Normally Daar likes to consider herself above playing dominance games--no need to compete when you're already the best--but Leliana is just competent enough to fucking bother her.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better this morning," Leliana says with a smile that's a little too sharp-smooth. "You did not receive any more visions during the night?"

Cassandra cuts in before she can answer. "What did Andraste tell you?"

"She didn't _tell me_ anything," Daar replies. "If she'd said something, I could have argued back, so she just smacked me over the head and showed me."

"Showed you what?" Cullen asks.

Daar tries not to smile at him too much for getting to the point. As fun as it is to antagonize both Hands of the Divine, she didn't get much sleep and it's ass'o'clock in the morning. There's a high probability this little meeting will devolve into a shouting match before it's over, so they may as well get as much of the important shit they can out of the way first.

"Eighty-one rifts."

She nods over at the stack of sketches she'd made, and Dorian had ultimately confiscated when she kept trying to go back and add more detail. They sit on the countertop beneath a mixing bowl, and Leliana gets to them first by merit of being closer. Although Cullen could have just shoved her. From the set of his jaw when the Hand keeps the stack to herself, Daar thinks he might have considered it.

"How accurate are these?" Leliana asks.

"Oh, not very." Daar smiles back even sharper than the other alpha had earlier. "Mostly I just fucking made shit up. All those lovingly-rendered constellations to verify latitude and longitude--total guesses. And I didn't bother to group them by likely proximity either, because I'm a dumb idiot common mercenary, you know."

Leliana arches an eyebrow at her attitude.

"If I weren't being so obviously sarcastic now, you and Cassandra both would still be thinking I'm little more than a snarky thug. Which--" Daar holds up a hand and speaks over the Seeker's argument. "Is an impression I do take care to encourage, because it's always nice to be underestimated, but still. If we're going to be working together, you need to pay closer attention."

"You did not include Rutherford in that assessment," Leliana feels the need to point out.

"If the Commander has assumed I'm just a common soldier, he's at the very least done the courtesy of acknowledging that I'm a good one," Daar says. "He hasn't acted like I'm a loud annoying idiot--" She gives Cassandra a pointed look, then turns her gaze back to Leliana. "Or an inconvenience to be manipulated and maneuvered around."

"You are exceedingly loud," Cassandra grumbles.

Daar rolls her eyes. "Exactly. No one expects a dagger in the back from an overly loud mercenary making dick jokes and wielding a fuck off big battleaxe."

"I suppose that does have a point." Leliana turns to Cullen as soon as she finishes the false concession. "What do you think, Commander?"

He stops trying to get a look at the sketches and turns his attention back to the women in the room. His face scrunches in obvious displeasure at being the sudden center of attention. A complete contradiction to Leliana's own subtle handling of the conversation. Another version of good Templar, bad Templar. One obviously adept player of the Game smoothly parrying and thrusting, so that his forthright responses seem exceedingly sincere--when _really_ , he is an even more adept player of--

Daar mentally picks up that babbling piece of paranoia, squishes it down, and drop kicks it to the back of her mind where it can't bother her. She'll do a full analysis and review of everyone's reactions and statements later. Right now, she needs to focus and stop overthinking.

"I'm glad I have not offended you," Cullen tells her, then takes a breath. "But ..."

Ah, so now he's going to offend her.

"This is a waste of time and you should have explained the nature of your visions last night."

"I'll stop bothering Cassandra and Leliana if you ask the questions," Daar offers.

Cassandra harrumphs and takes a seat in the chair across from the bed, while Leliana nods her assent, still without handing over the sketches so anyone else can see. Most alphas aren't big on sharing to begin with, and she probably loves hoarding secrets. Maybe that's what's in her hood. Red hair and secrets.

Cullen starts immediately, with arms folded across his chest. "Why didn't you tell us you had seen visions of more rifts last night?"

"None of them are located near Haven," Daar begins to list off. "You wouldn't have sent out soldiers at night, in this weather, to do anything about it, and I doubt we have the soldiers to spare anyway. I just would have been bothered with pointless shit questions all night long, and then you wouldn't have those sketches this morning."

He considers that for a moment, then gives a begrudging nod. "Do you know their locations?"

"Throughout Orlais and Fereldan, maybe even contained just to those two," she answers. "Could be some in other countries I just didn't recognize, but the closest ones are definitely in the Hinterlands."

"How many?"

"Eleven."

Cullen's scowl deepens. "Out of eighty-one?"

"So far."

He unfolds his arms just enough to subconsciously drop a hand down to the pommel of his sword. "Are we to believe nearly fifteen percent of all the rifts have opened where the Mage War rages the hardest by coincidence?"

"The Veil weakens in places of death and tragedy." Daar shrugs. "Regardless of your opinion on mages, the war definitely provides that."

"I can send a few of my scouts to check these locations," Leliana says before Cullen can make his opinion on mages known, then gives another sharp-smooth smile. "Once the mountain pass clears, of course."

Cullen speaks through gritted teeth. "Yes, because if you have scouts capable of traveling through the mountains, yet do not use them to bring in food and--"

"How I use my scouts are none of your concern, Commander."

"You cannot eat _secrets_ , or whatever it is you're--"

"Do _not_ be so short-sighted as to assume--"

"Enough!" Cassandra shouts. "Three days, and this petty bickering is all any of you have done."

Cullen's hand clenches and unclenches over the pommel of his sword, but he at least shuts his mouth and looks away. Leliana opens her mouth to speak, and Cassandra points a stern finger at her. Mutual understanding passes between the two Hands with a look, and Leliana returns her attention to the sketches she's hoarding with a sniff.

"Does 'any of you' include Lady Montilyet?" Daar asks in the silence.

Cassandra narrows her eyes. "How did you know?"

"Oh, Dorian keeps me up to date with all the gossip." Daar grins back at her. "And apparently, the three of them shouting can be heard even from outside the Chantry. For quite a ways."

Cassandra scowls for another moment before dropping it with a sigh. "Yes. We are running low on food. The soldiers are close to mutiny. Even when the weather clears, we may not have the--" She pauses to sneer the word. "-- _budget_ to purchase more food and pay them, so they will likely leave."

"All right." Daar swings her feet over the side of the cot and stretches out her back. "I'll come up to the Chantry and work it out."

"Work it out?" Cullen repeats slowly.

She grins at him. "Once had to lead my soldiers through some mountains like these. Put in a requisitions request for rations and got sent half of what we needed because the brass figured the cold and the march would kill off at least twenty percent of us anyway, and then hey. Free meat. Whatever you're fighting about can't be that bad."

Cassandra makes an outraged little noise, and even Leliana lifts her jaded eyes to check if Daar is being serious. She ignores both of them to focus on Cullen's reaction. His eyes go distant for a second before he gives a simple nod. She's heard Kirkwall was bad, but for him to accept a story about a superior officer telling their soldiers to just eat each other if they're hungry and accept it that quickly--

It must have been bad.

"Are you finally stepping into a leadership role, then?" Leliana asks.

"Do you accept your duty as the Herald of Andraste?" Cassanda asks barely a second later.

Daar chooses to reply to her first. "So that caught on then?"

Cassandra's scowl returns full force. "Multiple witnesses saw you step out of the Fade, guided by the Most Holy. You sealed rifts and closed the Breach. Now you have received visions from Andraste. _Yes_ , there are some who believe you are her Herald, and you have a duty to honor that faith."

"Does--" She raises her hands to make air quotes. "-- _some people_ include the people in this room?"

Cullen steps forward first and taps his fist over his breastplate in a salute. "I am at your service, Herald."

Cassandra gives a begrudging nod in agreement.

"Seeker Pentaghast and I will serve the Herald of Andraste faithfully, of course," Leliana speaks for her. What she doesn't say is that they'll serve Adaar or they believe she truly is the Herald. "If you will accept your duty as such."

"I have three conditions."

The Seeker whirls around with a shout and begins pacing, muttering to herself and making sharp gestures. Daar is pretty certain she catches the word throttle. No budget, tight rations, and a "military force" of disgruntled and-or untrained mercenaries. And now a fellow soldier desperately wants to throttle her. She'd say it's just like old times, but since no one has condescendingly told her to consider cannibalism, it's maybe a little better.

"I want Cullen as a partner," Daar announces, then holds up her hand to cut off any response. "The Trade tongue doesn't have an accurate translation for what I mean, so let me explain before you jump to conclusions."

Cassandra stops pacing, and Leliana holds her tongue. Cullen takes a step forward and stands at attention beside her bed like she's about to give an execution order. She really does not want to think about if his sense of duty would compel him to accept an Alpha claim if that were her condition.

"Maybe a closer translation would be--" Daar pauses a bit against the discomfort of misgendering herself, even through a common phrase. "Brothers-in-arms? I don't know what else you would call it here, but there isn't a military force in existence that doesn't have soldiers pairing up with someone else of roughly the same age and rank to bunk together and watch each other's backs."

Cullen blinks the cold, glassy stare out of his eyes and actually looks at her. His posture never slips from anything less than a perfectly straight back and squared shoulders, but his eyes are painfully easy to read. He had been expecting some sort of claim, but there's enough recognition mixed with the relief that he does have an idea of what she means.

"Why Rutherford?" Leliana asks.

Daar starts ticking off fingers. "We've already fought together, and he did have my back. Multiple times. He doesn't annoy me, and he's handled it when I annoy him. His speech patterns and blunt observations are typical for Qunari, which I appreciate. He didn't get himself killed while I dissociated. His--"

"And this has nothing to do with him being an Omega?" Cassandra interrupts.

"If two candidates were exactly the same in every way except biology, _under the Qun_ ," Daar stresses. "A beta would be given preference in almost all circumstances, because their judgment is less swayed by hormones. An omega would be chosen for skilled tasks--something artisan, administrative, or scholarly. An alpha would only get preference for front-lines military work or unskilled manual labor."

All three of them stare at her with varying levels of suspicion. She couldn't give less of a shit about the other two alphas' opinions, but the thought of Cullen giving her that blank-eyed stare while offering her sexual favors because he thinks it's his duty as a soldier and an omega--every Alpha this side of the ocean needs to be punched in whatever genitals they have by a very strong dwarf.

"And all reproduction requests must be submitted to and approved by the government," she continues. "To ensure both individuals of the breeding pair are citizens in good standing with compatible bloodlines and desired traits. In regular fucking, biology is about as important as having a thing for a certain height or horn type."

The tips of Cullen's ears turn a little pink, and his eyes drop down to her body for a split second before he locks them back on her face. Hmm, maybe someone does have a thing for a certain height--among humans, without any other Qunari for comparison, she's pretty tall. Maybe half a foot taller than him. Daar reigns in a grin. The whole point of that explanation was to reassure him she won't make any creepy alpha advancements on him. Don't blow it now by winking.

"I'm happy to explain more," she tells him. "But I figure you'd rather talk in private."

Cullen clears his throat and gives a short nod. "Yes."

"What is your second condition then?" Leliana asks.

This is going to be such a pain in her ass, but Varric is too soft-hearted to be a true spymaster, and no one else has a network comparable to what Leliana's already established. So. Play nice with the other alpha. That she could totally out maneuver and--play nice.

"I want you, Rutherford, and Lady Montilyet as my advisors," Daar says.

Both Leliana's brows arch. "You would share power?"

Daar smiles past the taste of her pride. "I don't have the connections in place that you do." Yet. Having admitted that though, the rest is much easier to say. "Human nobles will react better to another human, and Lady Montilyet has excellent qualifications. And Rutherford has already stepped up as Commander."

Cassandra doesn't object. As the Right Hand of the Divine, she sure as hell could. Cullen really isn't any more qualified than her. Except for the fact that the highest point of command typically turns into attending political meetings, budgeting for gear and rations, running the logistics of moving troops--fucking paperwork. Lots of power, but basically just a glorified desk job the Seeker would never have the patience for.

And possibly the only job Cullen can manage at the moment. He fought well on the mountain, but he also relapsed. He needs time to recover, learn to manage the withdrawal, and truly commit to quitting. None of that will ever happen if he's constantly pushing himself out in the field.

"Spymaster, politician, Commander," Cassandra says. aloud as she thinks about it.

Cullen scrubs a hand over his face. "More meetings."

"Yep." Daar clicks her tongue in sympathy, but then argues, "Do you really want me, Leliana, and Montilyet making decisions for Haven without the advice of anyone practical?"

He shoots her an unimpressed look at the blatant manipulation, but he doesn't disagree.

"The three of us in a council would be diverse enough to claim progress without being too threatening," Leliana muses. "A majority of women, but still one man. Each biology represented. All human, but that will likely be necessary to counterbalance your presence and reassure the human nobility. No mages?"

"This early, that would just start a shitstorm," Daar says. "And right now, our options are Tevinter necromancer or elven apostate."

Leliana gives a noncommittal hum. "Are you ready to hold your first council then?

Daar stands. "Let me get dressed in clothes I haven't been wearing the last three days. I'll meet you in the Chantry."

"Very well."

Cassandra gives a brief tap of her fist against her chest and leaves with Leliana--who takes the rift sketches with her. Someone never learned sharing is caring. Cullen salutes and turns to follow them, but Daar steps forward.

"A word, Commander." She flashes him her best reassuring smile.

Vashoth have many different smiles with hundreds of subtle variants, but she's pretty well practiced in mimicking Western facial expressions. Cullen must disagree however, because he regards her easy smile with the suspicion of a true Qunari. Normally, Daar prefers charm and flirting to get her way, but good old-fashioned Qunari bluntness might go further with her Commander.

"Do you want to attend the meeting?" she asks.

Cullen looks to the left while he considers his answer before dragging his gaze back to her. "No. But my soldiers need to be paid."

"Realistically, the best you'll get is half pay. And I'm not even guaranteeing that."

"I would be willing to _negotiate_ \--" The word comes out in a sneer. "But I am barely holding onto an undisciplined rabble of mercenaries, squires, and volunteer citizens. The few actual soldiers we have are Templars in various states of withdrawal who do not respect my command."

"We can work on that," Daar tells him. "I know three days of bed rest has slowed the momentum, but with both Hands supporting me as the Herald, I'll get them under control. Can you keep order in the meantime for quarter pay, two meals a day, and promise of full-time work soon?:

"Perhaps." He thinks it over and then sighs. "For that, I would come back to the meetings."

"All right. I'll go work it out with the others, and maybe when I get back, we can have that other talk, yeah?"

A slight flush rises on his cheeks, but he nods. "I'll be waiting at the encampment outside the gates."

Cullen salutes again and this time Daar lets him leave. Step one of building a relationship with her soulmate is a go, if she can just pull off a bloody miracle first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks, yes, Vivienne will be in this story, I haven't forgotten about her. I just want to introduce the companions slowly so they all feel individual as I get a handle on their voices. So for now, she simply hasn't arrived in Haven yet, but she will soon!
> 
> The next few chapters will have Daar dazzling Cullen with her sweet, sweet competence (the best trait with which to seduce a Virgo), and him following her around thinking how cool she is. And then they'll have that "private chat" Daar mentioned ...


	5. An Honest Fereldan Citizen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternatively titled, Cullen's Horrible No Good Very Bad Day--until Daar swoops in and fixes everything, and she's so pretty and competent, and he's too flustered to even laugh at any of her jokes. Mia was right, he's going to be single forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no trigger warnings needed for this chapter. Daar is just smooth and casually dominant, and Cullen is a big ole blushy sub.

Maker help him, but Cullen has never seen a more useless rabble of recruits. He's seriously considering the idea of consigning Leliana's crows at this point because at least those grouped together constitute a murder. 

The third boy in the last half hour trips over his own feet and faceplants in the snow to the sounds of loud laughter and sporadic bursts of sarcastic applause from the mercenaries lazing around on their faithless asses. When he spots the flash of coin changing hands from apparent bets they've been placing on how badly this can go, he has to close his eyes and clench his teeth. Omega or not, he could swear he's seeing red.

"Stop. Get up." He tries to offer the boy a hand, but his frustration has him pranking yanking the poor kid up by his arm. "Twenty minute break. All of you."

The surviving squires and Haven citizen-volunteers slink off. Several of the mercenaries shout complaints now that their fun has been spoiled. A stereotypically large alpha named Michael actually boos at him. If he weren't so weakened from lyrium withdrawal--if he were still taking it--

He tightens his grip on the pommel of his sword until his fingers go numb in an effort to stop that thought. There is a difference between a court martial and publically beating someone. With the lyrium clouding his mind, he and all of Kirkwall knew all too well how easy it was to cross that line.

"Commander?"

After over an hour of hearing his title mockingly jeered, the only thing that registers in his mind is the scent of an Alpha behind him and the bitter taste of his own failures.

"What?!" Cullen practically snarls the word, spinning around to confront--

Daar. His soulmate. Herald of _Andraste_. More hoots and laughter sound from behind him as his entire face attempts to burn itself out of existence in embarrassment. She lifts her hands in supplication, head and gaze both turned submissively to the side to avoid direct eye contact.

Which unfortunately leaves him free to gape at her like he's never seen a woman before. Maybe he hasn't. A simple change of clothes has never rendered him speechless before. Mostly because he tends not to notice any clothing that isn't armor or a uniform.

Technically though, Daar does wear armor. Her black leather breastplate has been repaired and matched with similar gauntlets. The tunic and trousers underneath are both simple and black as well, but it's the first time he's seen her in clothes that weren't battle-worn or slept in for three days. The all black outfit somehow does some sort of color magic to make her brown skin look even warmer--

Cullen forces himself to draw his gaze up from the smooth column of her throat she has presented to him, but then he gets stuck all over again on ... he's seen lipstick before. He has. Surely. But her lips are the perfect shade of red-brown. That has to have a name. One of those infinite color names for referring to some precise shade that doesn't look any different from six other colors, and he has never in his life wanted to know those useless words until he saw how Daar's bottom lip is ever-so-slightly redder in the middle.

"Commander?"

Eyes. Contact them. He snaps his gaze up to meet hers.

"Herald."

Good, that was a word. Now make more.

Uh. Uhhhh. Hhhhnnn.

"Do you have time to discuss the council meeting?" Daar asks.

"Yes." Remembering that word kickstarts his brain, and Cullen manages to make a whole sentence next. "What did you negotiate?"

"Two meals a day and quarter pay for the week," she says loudly enough to carry. "Half pay the next fortnight, then three meals and full pay by the end of the month."

That gets at least some of the mercenaries to straighten up and pay attention. It isn't what he'd originally insisted on before his meetings with Leliana and Lady Montilyet had descended into shouting matches, but it's a lot more fair than either of them had thrown back at him. He should thank her and move on, but he finds himself crossing his arms instead.

"How will you pay for that?" Cullen asks.

All eyes shift back to her, but Daar doesn't seem to mind either the attention or his stubborn suspicion. She just gives her audience an easy smile and keeps her voice loud without shouting.

"The roads should be clear by tomorrow, and as soon as they are, a whole squabble of nobles are going to swoop down on us to see the place the Divine died." Daar's voice turns harder. "If they want to turn the Most Holy's death into a scandalous conversation starter or grab a rock from where the Conclave really did explode, they can pay at the gate."

"What about food?" Someone from the back shouts.

"Two meals a day until the end of the month," she replies evenly, then speaks over the ensuing grumbles. "And the Commander and I are just on our way to negotiate with Seggrit about his prices. If you want more food or booze, you can speak to him when we're done."

The crowd calms after that in as much no one else shouts any more questions or inappropriate comments. But Cullen can feel everyone's eyes locked on him and Adaar. Whatever miracle she worked in the council meeting needs to hold true in order to placate the mercenaries as well.

"Are you ready, Commander?"

He nods. "Lead the way."

They manage to leave without interruption, but rather than making straight for Haven's gate, Daar slows their pace near the stables.

"Sorry for springing this on you at the end," she says. "But promising I'd teach you to use some diplomacy when talking to the merchants was part of the deal I made with Lady Montilyet."

Cullen grimaces. No doubt he'll have to apologize for "threatening" that shameless bastard. The last thing he wanted to do was simper and make nice with the sort of person who raised the prices on food in the face of starving villagers, but ... dammit. Daar got a guarantee of pay for the soldiers, and with pay might come some semblance of order. Maker knows he's done worse for the sake of maintaining order.

"Very well." He tries to put it out of his mind and focus back on her instead. "You kept your word and brought me back a better deal than you promised. I am grateful you're here."

Daar's face brightens into a smile that nearly leaves him breathless all over again. Maybe he simply wishes it to be true, but this smile seems more sincere than the cocky grins she usually flashes. He almost misses what she says next.

"Wait here."

She disappears into the stables, returning after a moment with a bottle in her hand and a smile that is much more smug. He doesn't even want to know where or how she procured that without any money. Presumably without money. He has no idea if her mercenary company was paid up front or if she's technically still owed and by whom.

"Is that really necessary?" His voice comes out sterner than intended, but Andraste preserve him if he's ever managed to speak to a woman without making a fool or a bastard of himself.

"I'm not starting a drinking contest." Daar looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. "Unless you'd be down for that sort of thing. Later, off-duty," she adds, then changes the subject before he can splutter out either an acceptance or a refusal. "Bringing a good bottle of alcohol always helps a negotiation."

Cullen dubiously eyes the bottle. Good seems pretty optimistic for the cloudy liquid inside.

"And when you're snowed in up in the mountains, any alcohol is good alcohol," she finishes with a wink.

They stop in front of the merchant's table and he deliberately concentrates on looking over the wares instead of replying to her--flirting? Smiles and winks usually mean flirting. Except she talks like this to everyone. He has no reason to believe she knows he's her soulmate. Hell, he might not be. Just because she's his soulmate doesn't mean he must be hers. There is no reason for the Herald of Andraste to be mated to a lyrium-addicted oathbreaker on the verge of losing faith.

"Are you here to threaten me again?"

Cullen looks up to see Segritt emerging from his tent and clenches his jaw to keep his mouth shut.

"Extort a Fereldan citizen just trying to make a living?" the merchant continues, loud enough for everyone in the town square to hear. "Come back when you have an agent of the crown, as Haven is under Fereldan authority--unless you care to challenge that."

"Of course not." Daar smiles and sets the bottle on his table. "We are here to apologize and negotiate at your convenience."

Segritt's expression slowly morphs into a smile much slicker than hers. "Oh? Well, you certainly do have a lot to apologize for."

Cullen grinds his teeth together as he prepares to tell this useless bastard he's sorry, but Daar speaks up before he has the chance.

"I am so sorry you were treated harshly."

He gapes at her. "Herald, you do _not_ \--"

"Commander, please." Daar places a hand on his shoulder to silence him, then turns back to Segritt. "As the Herald of Andraste, I offer you my sincerest apologies."

Segritt grins wider. Cullen's stomach lurches. He'd rather apologize a hundred times himself than be responsible for his leader needing to grovel in the face of such a smug little git. If this is the lesson he needs to learn, next time he will hold his temper no matter how much the merchant infuriates him.

"Good," Segritt says. "Since you have asked so humbly ... I accept."

Daar's smile doesn't waver a centimeter under such public humiliation. "Thank you. Please, tell me your side of the previous negotiation."

"I was _threatened_." Segritt shoots him a baleful glare, then turns his cunning gaze back to her. "When I have every right to make a living, just as any other Fereldan citizen."

Daar nods along with a few soft hums. "I understand you have food, drink, and a few weapons for sale."

Cullen opens his mouth to tell her at exactly what price the merchant asks for those necessities, but her hand slides from his shoulder to rest just on the back edge of his breastplate, below the back of his neck. The silent warning of being reprimanded like a puppy by having the back of his neck grabbed is more effective than any red-eyed flash or Alpha command typically given by a commanding officer.

Segritt continues his melodramatics without noticing. "Yes, and my prices are perfectly reasonable for the situation."

"We have people going hungry," Daar replies mildly.

Nearly everyone in the town square has stopped to watch the "negotiation" at this point. Haven is not a large town by any means, but the survivors of the Conclave have no other place to stay, swelling the population to its limits. Segritt's gaze darts over Daar's shoulder to assess the crowd. If not for his own conscience, surely his sense of self-preservation should make his decision clear.

But merchants have never been known for an abundance of common sense over greed.

"Markets work on the law of supply and demand," Segritt finally says. "And while I am willing to sell my wares to anyone in Haven, it's only fair they be sold at a price reflecting their _value_."

Their _value_ is scared, hungry people. Cullen closes his eyes to keep himself from shouting at the other man all over again. Maybe Daar should grab him by the back of the neck. At least then one of them would be displaying control.

"If you lower your prices, I would be happy to put my full support and endorsement behind your business as the Herald of Andraste," she tells him.

Segritt pauses, but in the absence of any consequence if he doesn't, he shakes his head. "I assure you, my wares are already being sold at a discount, Herald."

"Herald," Cullen whispers, practically shaking beneath her hand to remain in control. Mocking his title is one thing, but sneering hers should be considered blasphemy.

"We're good, Commander."

Daar slides her hand up to wrap around the back of his neck without squeezing. The weight of her hand rests against his skin like an assurance, not a threat. He hates this man, hates seeing her disrespected--but he will obey.

"I understand your position, Segritt," she says. "But if you don't mind, I would like to make sure all the facts are agreed upon by both sides before I leave."

The merchant shrugs. "I suppose I can accommodate your request."

Daar shoots him another entirely undeserved smile. "Thank you. For the record, your prices are set by supply and demand?"

"Yes, they are."

"For the record, you reject my offer of support?"

Segritt frowns. "For the record, yes. I have no need of it."

"Because the demand for your wares is high enough already, since you have the only stockpiled supply of food?"

" _Yes_."

Daar removes her hand from Cullen's shoulder to take a very small metal rectangle out of her pocket. "After the hard feelings resulting from the previous negotiation, I simply want to ensure everyone is happy and in agreement of this one."

She flicks her hand sharply to the side to make the lid on the metal thing come open, but Cullen is distracted from whatever it is by Segritt smirking at him. He can't resist glaring back at the merchant, but he holds his tongue. The chance to gloat about being the only one happy with this deal must soothe Segritt's irritation, because he gives Daar a nod of assent and she continues.

"You stated earlier you were willing to sell to anyone in Haven?"

"Yes."

Just as fast as she snapped it open, she clicks the lid of the small device shut.

"For the record, that includes both people who have sworn themselves under my banner and those who have made no allegiance to me as Herald?"

Segritt relaxes back into a smug grin. "Yes. And I believe those numbers currently stand about even, in case you are considering a boycott."

Daar flicks the lid back open and gives him an answering smile. "Of course not. Well then, I believe those are the facts. Anything you'd care to add?"

She snaps the lid shut again just as Segritt opens his mouth to answer, then keeps messing with it while he speaks. The merchant stares at it in distraction, and Cullen's gaze follows his back to it again. There's some sort of metal gear inside, but the lid keeps opening and closing too quickly for either of them to get a good look.

"No ..." Segritt shakes his head and attempts to ignore the constant fwip-click. "I think our deal is concluded."

"Excellent." Daar snaps it shut one last time, then reaches for the bottle she brought with her free hand. "The Commander and I will go inform the large group of bored mercenaries outside that you have the only source of food and booze."

Segritt gapes at her in the sudden silence.

"Oh but don't worry, the mountain pass should clear up tomorrow, so I'm sure you won't be snowed in with lawless mercenaries, Templars desperate for a fix, and starving villagers willing to do anything to feed th--"

Segritt stabs an accusing finger at her. "You're threatening me!"

Daar wrenches off the bottle top one-handed, with a thumbnail grown out long enough to be a claw. Cullen checks her eyes for any redness, but they're still the same deep brown. None of her other nails have extended to claws either. Only a beta should have such fine control over a physiological shift. For Daar to do it as an Alpha, her stronger hormones should be pushing her toward a full blown ravening, not just a minor shift on a single finger.

"Of course not." Her claw retracts into a regular nail with one smooth shift. "We both agreed you would sell to people unaffiliated with me, you have the only supply, and you are not under my protection."

"You're _threatening_ me," Segritt whines again.

Daar raises an eyebrow. "You agreed to all of those facts, and said yourself there are no agents of the crown here to enforce the law--or protect Fereldan citizens trying to make a living."

Cullen tries not to gaze at her with too much adoration. Since he's never been known for subtly, that leaves him staring straight ahead over Segritt's shoulder. He doesn't trust himself not to burst out laughing if he looks at either of their faces. Especially the merchant's sad, sullen little eyes.

"But it's your duty to protect me!"

She shakes her head. "You rejected my offer of support of your own volition, and therefore are not under my protection."

"B-but it--you are the Herald of Andraste." His eyes turn crafty as he regards their audience. "You wouldn't stand by and allow harm to come to me, would you?"

"As an unaffiliated merchant, you would not receive a guard posted to protect your wares and your person. But yes, you are correct. I am the Herald of Andraste, if I knew of any crime being committed, I and any soldiers sworn to me would do my best to protect any citizen."

Then Daar turns to address the crowd gathered to watch. "And I'm sure each one of you would immediately notify me or the Commander if you saw this good Fereldan citizen in danger."

No one answers, but there are a few snickers.

"Unfortunately," she says, turning back to Segritt. "I may not always be available, and I believe Commander Rutherford is also quite busy training the new recruits."

Cullen keeps his face as straight as he can manage. "Very busy."

"This isn't fair!"

Daar takes a small piece of rolled paper from her pouch and lays it on the table. "This offer from Lady Montilyet is very fair. In exchange for lowering your prices on necessities, it allows you to significantly tax luxury goods like sugar and alcohol."

"I'm sure the mercenaries will be pleased with that." Segritt still snatches up the paper despite his grumbling snark. "And I suppose you plan to take a cut once I start those taxes?"

"Start taxing?" she asks. "Why Segritt, surely you already planned to pay your taxes to the crown? And don't worry, if you have any questions about legality or think something needs to be reported, Leli--oh sorry, that's the Left Hand of the Divine to _you_ , is an old friend of King Therin, so I'm certain she can bring that to his attention."

Cullen has to quickly clear his throat to stop from laughing out loud at the thought of Alistair being bothered by a report of one merchant not paying his taxes. King or not, the man he once knew would probably make Segritt pay his taxes in cheese from then on just to discourage any more petty complaints.

Segritt hunkers down behind the paper. "That won't be necessary."

"Then do we have a deal?"

The merchant hesitates.

"Because if not," Daar leans her hip against the side of the table and casually wags the bottle back and forth, close to spilling it. "Tethras will bring in his contacts from the Merchants' Guild, who will undercut your prices. Lady Montilyet will make it very public that you tried to extort starving survivors of the Conclave in the very wake of the Most Holy's death. And Commander Rutherford--didn't you threaten to drag him into the town square and spank him like a child?"

Cullen crosses his arms. "He behaves like a spoiled brat."

Some alcohol pours out the end of the bottle and splashes on the table. Segritt jumps back with a startled yelp. Daar flips open the lid of her little metal device.

"What is that?" Segritt demands.

"Oh, this? I mess with it when I'm bored or nervous or just ..." Daar spins the metal gear with her thumb and a small flame suddenly appears in front of her nail. "Real fucking irritated about being dragged down here to remind someone to do their job fairly and competently."

She lets the bottle tip forward a bit more in her grasp. Another splash of alcohol hits the table. It might be too long since he stopped taking the lyrium, but Cullen tries to focus on the flame anyway. It doesn't feel magic. Surely she would have told him if she were a mage? Unless that's why she's Tal Vashoth.

"Witchcraft!" Segritt shouts.

Daar just snorts. "The exact opposite, actually. Dwarven craftsmanship. Isn't that right, Tethras?"

Cullen looks back behind them and spots Varric watching in the crowd.

"Direct from Orzammar," the dwarf says with a wink.

Daar shuts the lid again, smothering the flame inside. "So do you accept Lady Montilyet's terms or ..." She opens the lid, flicks the gear, and the flame bursts back to life.

Segritt yelps. "I accept!"

Daar obligingly shuts the fire-starter. Cullen steps forward and crosses his arms, fixing the merchant with a glare.

"What was that, merchant?" he asks.

Segritt blinks, then the sullen look returns to his face. "I accept your deal ... Herald."

It isn't said any more respectfully than when he sneered it in the beginning, but at least he is using her proper title again. Cullen looks to Daar for any sign she wants him to make the merchant repeat himself in a more appropriate tone. She gives the spot he'd just been standing in a very quick but pointed look. Understanding the intent and feelings behind civilians' facial expressions gave him a headache, but Cullen can recognize an order to stand down when he sees one. He steps back into place where her gaze had directed him.

"Then the Commander and I will take our leave." Daar pockets the fire-starter and smiles as she has been throughout the entire negotiation from embarrassment to victory. "I trust we won't be needed back here again?"

Segritt lifts his chin and almost looks like he wants to glare at her, but the defiance only lasts a split second. She somehow shifts from Daar to Adaar without moving a muscle. Cullen is suddenly much more aware of her scent--strong, warm, and undeniably Alpha. The very pressure of the air seems to change. He looks closely, but the length of her canines haven't actually lengthened. Even though he's now certain she could easily control the shift.

The merchant immediately drops his head and hunches down in a submissive posture. As sweet as the victory over him had been a moment ago, Cullen now braces himself to watch Adaar put him in his place. The other man certainly deserves it for repeatedly challenging her authority. None of his other superiors would have ever let such disrespect from a beta civilian go on for so long. And he'd been happy to throttle Segritt himself for the last two days, yet ...

Cullen forces himself not to look away. He did that in Kirkwall, but now he needs to pay attention to the sort of punishment his leader hands out.

"No, ma'am," Segritt mumbles.

"Excellent." Daar's expression changes from a display of her teeth back to a smile as if nothing had happened. "Commander?"

Cullen has always stood at attention, but his spine still attempts to straighten even more. "Yes, Herald?"

"Will you escort me back to your soldiers encampment?" she asks. "I'd like to hear your recommendation for a guard to post here."

"I--" His mind feels completely blank for the second time today as he struggles to switch tracks. "Yes, of course."

"You can keep the bottle." She sets it down and pushes out of her hip lean against the table without looking back at the cowed merchant.

"Right this way."

Daar shoots him an amused glance but follows him anyway as if she doesn't know where the camp is. Does she think the humiliation of being bested at his own game served as punishment enough for Segritt? Yet she barely rubbed it in. Perhaps they're returning to his tent because he deserves to be punished for causing the situation in the first place.

There has to be a punishment in this somewhere.

He should keep his head down and accept her judgment. She solved the problem, and he did create a situation that required her to apologize to someone far beneath her station. But he finds his steps slowing as they reach the stables outside the village gates nonetheless.

"What was that?" Cullen asks.

The dwarven fire-starter, the effortless display of dominance, or the lack of punishment ... he isn't really sure what he's asking. Either way, Daar doesn't seem to mind him asking questions. But she hadn't seemed anything except friendly with Segritt either.

"Qunari diplomacy," Daar jokes with a grin.

Cullen just stares at her. He should be grateful. She did solve the problem when he couldn't, but--

He doesn't want to be punished, especially not with such a tenuous control over the soldiers as it is, but--

Adaar very clearly is a powerful Alpha to assert her authority without hurting anyone, but--

His mind struggles to think something productive instead of repeatedly insisting that _she isn't doing it right!_ He knows that sort of inflexibility in thinking is what makes him a critical bastard and who doesn't understand jokes--Maker's fuck, she just made a joke, didn't she? Cullen knows from miserable past experience that laughing too late upsets people as much as not laughing, and his fake-laugh sounds like he's a dying nug.

The silence stretches on long enough that he's actually grateful when everyone in the soldiers' camp suddenly starts shouting like another rift opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait! I'm picking up 5-10 extra hours a week at work because now that school is out, all the parents are taking their kids to the library. I even have to work shifts in the Children's Department. clearly I am in hell, please press f to pay respects
> 
> it's always really encouraging to get reviews though, and the last couple I got were really nice!! thank you so much <3


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